


Never Enough

by isuilde



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot, SOCCER TEAM MIXED KOUEN, Uniforms, literally a knee-jerk reaction after seeing the double R omitsuzu cards bye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 22:52:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19238725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isuilde/pseuds/isuilde
Summary: Tsuzuru really, really likes the goalkeeper uniform that is Omi’s costume for the Mixed Troupe Stage.Sex ensues.





	Never Enough

**Author's Note:**

> First thing first: I have no idea how to write porn.
> 
> Secondly, OmiTsuzu people on twitter were raving over how hot Fushimi Omi is in GK uniform exactly because there is almost no bare skin showed, and I one hundred percent agree and so this.... thing happened. 
> 
> Thirdly, if you still decided to read this you are a brave brave soul and I apologize because I can’t write sexytiemz to save my life but please know that OmiTsuzu’s sex life is definitely better than this shit I wrote.

Tsuzuru isn’t sure what about the uniform flipped his switch on, but it did, and here he is, gasping into the slope of Omi’s collarbone as he ruts almost desperately against Omi’s thigh, pressing his boyfriend against the wall as three fingers buried within his ass, scissoring languidly despite his pleas for more.

“Fushimi-sa—“ the last syllable breaks into an embarrassingly high-pitched whine as Omi’s finger curls deep; Tsuzuru’s back tenses, and he almost comes right then and there when Omi’s teeth finds his ear, scraping lightly with a deep chuckle that reverberates in his chest. 

“There’s only us,” his boyfriend’s voice is molten lava, the vibration making a river of shivers down Tsuzuru’s spine. His left hand, still gloved, curves along the line of Tsuzuru’s jaw, one thumb tipping Tsuzuru’s chin up. “What did you promise to call me when there’s only us, Tsuzuru?”

Tsuzuru tangles his fingers in the dark fabric over Omi’s shoulder, bunching it within his knuckles as his hips push down to chase Omi’s fingers.  “Omi... Omi-sa... plea—“

Omi’s black shorts are riding up, Tsuzuru’s cock heavy against it as he pushes  _ (again, closer, harder,  _ **_please_ ** _ )  _ and seeks relief in the friction of bare skin and rough fabric. Their uniforms are drenched now, slick with sweat and  _ more _ , and when Tsuzuru’s balls slide down Omi’s shorts to meet what little patch of bare skin exposed, it was delicious. “Nnnggghh—“

More. Tsuzuru needs more. He drags his hand down Omi’s clothed torso, maps the lines of Omi’s abs underneath the fabric with his fingertips— _ one-two-three _ , and he can feel Omi’s stomach spasms under his touch,  _ four-five-six _ , and Omi’s cock twitches within the flimsy constraint of his black shorts. Tsuzuru grins, his teeth scraping against Omi’s neck and his words ghost over Omi’s jaw, “Omi-san—“

His fingers skitter over the elastic waist of the shorts, then drops to trap the hard bulge in Omi’s pants.

“—I want  _ this _ inside.”

Tsuzuru’s name escapes Omi’s lips in a laugh, low and rough and nothing but hot desire, and the next thing Tsuzuru knows is the disappointing sensation of emptiness as Omi draws his fingers out of his ass. He doesn’t have the time to protest though, because Omi is gently taking his hand away and slipping his shorts down—seriously, Tsuzuru’s surprised he’d never once thought about how easy it is to slip those shorts off, thank God for lightweight materials and elastic waistband—and then he splutters because Omi is lifting Tsuzuru’s left leg up, pulls him up and closer to line his cock beneath Tsuzuru’s ass.

There’s a split-second where their eyes meet, where Omi smiles reassuringly, and then he pushes in.

The fabric bunched under Tsuzuru’s hands are slippery now, drenched in their sweat, but the slide of Omi’s cock within him is a delicious heat that opens him up and fills him—slowly, carefully, and not nearly enough. Tsuzuru tugs at Omi’s shirts, pushes down because he cannot think of anything but  _ more-more-more-deeper-deeper-faster-please— _

“Tsuzuru,” Omi pants, voice rough, fingers tight on Tsuzuru’s hip. “Tsuzuru—“

“Nghh... O...mi-sa— _ ah— _ “ Tsuzuru shivers, knuckles white around the bunched fabric of Omi’s uniform, words lost in-between sharp gasps, “I—a-ahh, Omi-sa—“

Omi slides down the wall, hands urging Tsuzuru’s knees to give in and follow him down to the ground, settling Tsuzuru’s bulk on top of him. A soft kiss falls on top of Tsuzuru’s head, then another on Tsuzuru’s forehead, before Omi settles into a gentle rocking motion that sends heat curling pleasantly in the pit of Tsuzuru’s stomach.

“Breathe,” Omi murmurs, his words more of a vibration in his chest under Tsuzuru’s hands rather than a voice. “Too much?”

Ever the careful lover.

Tsuzuru shakes his head. He tugs Omi’s shirt down, hard, and leans up to catch Omi’s lower lip between his teeth along with Omi’s breath, and carves the words against Omi’s lips: “ _ Never _ .”

His hips rise, then slams back down.

Omi’s guttural grunt and the way his hips chase Tsuzuru’s ass when Tsuzuru lifts up again makes Tsuzuru’s chest swell with pride— _ it feels good, he’s feeling good, I’m making him feel good _ —but then Omi’s hands close over Tsuzuru’s hips and pulls him down hard, and Tsuzuru’s head goes white.

“Haa—aahh!! Ah, ah—O-Omi... sa—ah, ah, aa—“

Tsuzuru scrabbles at Omi’s shirts, fingers slipping on the drenched fabric as Omi snaps his hips up, sharp and hard, hitting Tsuzuru’s prostrate in one smooth slide, knocking a helpless groan off Tsuzuru’s lungs. The pleasant heat that curls within Tsuzuru’s stomach now climbs up his chest, slowly and deliciously melting down into liquid lava to the tips of his fingers with each snap of Omi’s hips, with each slide of fabrics and bare skin. He gasps into Omi’s mouth, swallows the sound of his name that escapes Omi’s lips, and thinks:  _ good, deeper, faster, closer— _

Omi breaks their kiss when Tsuzuru pushes down to meet his next thrust. “Tsuzu— _ oh _ ,” he pants, hips losing their rhythm for a moment, his control slipping off to the reckless chase of climax, a too-quick succession of one-two-three thrusts that sends sharp pleasure through Tsuzuru, knocking his entire breath out of his lungs. Omi’s right arm winds around Tsuzuru waist, bare fingers gripping Tsuzuru’s ass so tightly that Tsuzuru’s sure they’re going to leave a mark.

“More,” Tsuzuru pants, forehead pressing against Omi’s own, fists around handfuls of the blue fabric that spans over Omi’s torso. He lifts his hips again, slams back down, ruts up against the material riding up Omi’s stomach, and keens when Omi meets him with a sharp thrust. “More, Omi-san, oh, oh-oh-oh—aaahh..“

Omi’s gaze burns, dark and dangerous and nothing but molten desire, and his voice is a rough rasp of heat: “Okay.”

He thrusts up, hard enough to send Tsuzuru’s entire body forward that Omi’s head falls onto Tsuzuru’s shoulder. Another thrust, and Tsuzuru forgets how to breathe, forgets everything except the heat of Omi within him and the slick slide of their bodies and the friction of Omi’s shirt against his cock, until gloved fingers close around his cock, stroking in time with each thrust, and Tsuzuru wails.

“Ah—I, Omi...Omi-saann—nnnggghh, aahh!!”

“More,” Omi’s breath glides over Tsuzuru’s neck, a split-second before his teeth closes over Tsuzuru’s clothed shoulder and bites hard with his next thrust, his gloved thumb stroking over the tip of Tsuzuru’s cock, and Tsuzuru loses it.

He comes almost violently, shuddering in Omi’s arm, riding Omi’s thrusts and fucking Omi’s gloved fist, Omi’s name swallowed in a deep kiss as he feels Omi comes, too. It’s hot, and for a moment Tsuzuru thinks he’s burning from inside, Omi’s cock still buried deep and Tsuzuru’s hips still jerking almost helplessly, chasing the last of his climax in Omi’s gloved hand. 

“...mi-sa—“ he gasps, arms giving into gravity and exhaustion as he collapses completely on top of Omi, pleasure still coursing through every nerve of his body. “Omi-san... ngghh...”

Omi laughs, out of breath. “You really like this costume, huh? I’m going to have to thank Yuki, if he doesn’t kill us for ruining these uniforms.”

It takes a full ten seconds before Tsuzuru can process that entire sentence, probably because his brain is nothing but a mush of pleasure and contentment for now. He groans, half in embarrassment and half in mortification at the thought of returning their now-ruined Mixed Troupe Stage costumes to Yuki. “I’m sorry...”

“Don’t be,” and whoever said Fushimi Omi is an angel is a liar, because Tsuzuru can feel his bare finger trace the rim of Tsuzuru’s hole, where Omi’s cock is still buried deep. “I like it when Tsuzuru takes the initiative.”

The finger slips in, stretching the hole just enough for Omi’s come to leak and drip down Tsuzuru’s thigh. His cheeks burning, Tsuzuru’s buries his face into the fabric of Omi’s shirt, and bites back a gasp when Omi rocks his hips. His own cock twitches in response—too soon, now, but definitely up for a second round. 

Omi chuckles, a gentle vibration of amusement and understanding in his chest. “Not enough?”

Tsuzuru finds the pebble of Omi’s nipple under the shirt with his teeth, lightly bites and worries at it until Omi’s breath hitches in his throat before sliding up to kiss Omi again, engraving the words against Omi’s lips even as his cheeks flare with heat, a playful challenge:

“Never enough.”

**——-o0o——-**


End file.
